The Book of the Ler

by M. A. Foster

  “Here you are lucky indeed. This is a yearly spectacle of interest, education and enlightenment to us all. It goes on for many days. I suppose that for us the timing is fortuitous. If we had come here days earlier, all we would have had to pick from would have been agricultural specialties; good enough for work and production, but surely nothing there for the man of discriminating tastes. But now; now we arrive just past the peak of the exhibition. On display now are examples of klesh bred purely for purity of bloodline and beauty. Control of genetics. Marvels. True wonders!”

  They landed. An attendant triad bowed respectfully to Hatha as they emerged from the shuttle and started toward the complex. It seemed to be a kind of tented structure, but as they went inside, it did not resemble a circus or carnival at all, as its outside might have suggested. It seemed plush, neat, even luxurious. Hatha was expansive.

  “These on display now are, ah, ornamentals. They generally have no duties, no responsibilities, except to be cooperative and well behaved. Of course, some have functions—but now these are but shadows of the original purposes. Most are quiet, although some types tend to unruliness. You will doubtless find this entertaining, pure edification.”

  They went into the first section. What Han saw there completely dislocated his sense of reality. The displays were open cubicles with a portion in the rear closed off. They were furnished with rugs and cassocks, and those inside were prevented from wandering by a mesh of fine wires in the front. The specimens were labeled, on boards at the front of the cubicles, in an arcane terminology Han could not decipher. Also, attached to the boards were elaborate knotted designs, which Han presumed were symbols for various prizes and awards. Inside the cubicles sat or paced males or females, naked but neat, clean, and seemingly unconcerned, either with their situation or their nudity. The faces exhibited curiosity or animation, but in them there was no resistance, no calculation or hatred. In this particular section, all appeared to be redheads who bore an astonishing resemblance to one another. It was much closer than tribal, at least in the sense Han understood the term, and indeed, the individuals looked more like each other than members of most families. He had to look closely to see differences. But they were there. To the creatures themselves, they probably saw the differences as glaring, obvious, and certainly, the personalities would vary wildly—seen from inside the breed, as it were. These had dense, deep-coppery hair which fell free and more or less straight to their shoulders. Their skins were creamy and light in tone, smooth and hairless except for the pubic region and, oddly enough, the lower legs, which were, from the knees down, heavily furred with the same coppery red hair, males and females alike. They were, as a group, rather small-boned and delicate in appearance, and they all had deep sea-green eyes, of an intensity of color Han had never seen before. Hatha commented knowledgeably, while Han stared.

  “Here you see the best examples of the Zlat Klesh. It is an old breed. I am told it was difficult to establish, and is still difficult to maintain according to breed standards, which exclude blemishes and freckles, as well as a certain heavier bone structure. These things tend to recur in Zlats. But as a group, these are generally fine examples. Zlats are not to my taste, of course, but everyone has his own preferences.”

  Han felt a hundred emotions boiling within himself. Impossible not to feel rage at this slow atrocity generations long. He looked at the smooth faces, the small, delicate nostrils. The males were bearded in pleasing patterns. The females looked pampered and untroubled. Most were young adults, approximately Han’s age, or comparable with it, but a few were older. One distinguished-looking male in particular was middle-aged, but in perfect physical condition. His mustache dropped with flair and charm; patterns of iron gray streaked his hair and beard.

  “I confess, Hatha, that it shocks me to see my own kind here. It would shock me to see ler displayed like this.”

  “So, indeed. But by expressing it as you do, you pass another test. Not many of your kind can see this, and fail to run crazy. But to what end? These imagine no rescue. They lead lives of pampered boredom. It is also so with the others.” The voice was coldly rational.

  Han stifled an urge to attempt to strangle Hatha. He had seen him in action, against Liszendir, and he knew that he could not hope to best him barehanded. Futility. Frustration.

  “I can’t read the signs. Who has won what?”

  “Ah . . . Let me see. This one, here, for example, is unbred, a young female, as you can doubtless observe for yourself, and in late adolescence. Fourth place in her class—unbred females. Not so good, for a first show. The fault is delicacy—she is just a bit too fine-boned, I think. Now this one over here is a first. You will notice that she differs chiefly in . . .”

  As Hatha went on, describing the virtues of another Zlat female, Han looked at the girl who had placed fourth. She was sitting relaxed on a cassock to one side, looking at nothing; she seemed to be dozing. As he watched, she became more alert, possibly sensing that she was being watched, not just idly glanced at. She arose, moved gracefully over to another cassock, which served as a storage area, opened it and removed a complicated object which she began to handle deftly, manipulating it into another configuration, which required considerable effort and concentration, but whose results seemed to please her. He looked closer at her.

  Her face had an oval shape, with the slightest hint of cheekbone showing below her eyes, which were deep and thoughtful. They slanted slightly, which accented her face beautifully and subtly. Her mouth was finely formed, small, with rather full lips, slightly pursed. The upper lip was fractionally more full than the lower. He looked again. She had a beauty that was mind-wrenching. Han let his eyes fall downwards, to the body. Like her face, it was small, delicate, finely formed and outlined. Her breasts were small, round, accented with delicate brown nipples. She looked back at him and smiled vacantly. Then, recognizing him as a human like herself, although very different in appearance, she looked curious, friendly. Han turned away, entranced and sickened at the same time.

  Hatha had turned back from his explanation of Zlat virtues. He had been saying that Zlats had been originally bred to perform fine-detail electronic assemblies. Han heard, and noted the fact, but it was just another piece of data.

  Hatha was inexhaustible. He walked Han for miles, or so it seemed, through exhibits of every type Han could have imagined. There was more variety here than one could find in a hundred years on any one planet; sifted, classified, bred, rebred, inbred, to produce pure specimens, far beyond any concept of race. That staggered Han; back in the normal world, one hardly ever saw any person near a pure type, so mixed had people become in the course of long years and many migrations. But these were races, which, strictly speaking, had never existed. Only here. Han recalled his first sight of the warship; this was a sight which paled that into utter insignificance. Finally, mercifully, Hatha reached the end of his travels. There was more, but there was only so much one could take in at one time. The variety was staggering.

  Hatha announced, “This is by no means all. We have only seen slightly more than half. But it may serve. Did you see anything that caught your fancy?”

  “Oh, many, many. It is hard to choose.”

  “Indeed it is. That is why only the high have it. Strength and fortitude! But was there anything in particular?”

  “Only one?” He had a rash thought of asking for all of them. But that would solve nothing. They wouldn’t understand what he expected of them, would probably resent it, and certainly would not be able to get along with all the other breeds. The race issue had caused humans problems since the dawn of civilization, and that had risen from racial differences which were, in some cases, subtle, accidental, or even imaginary. Han could easily imagine, from that, the kinds of prejudice which one might find in artificially bred populations of pure types. But he could not know how they would act together.

  “Only one.”

  “Well, if I must . . .” He thought back, verifying an earlier impulse. Ye
s. It was still true. He had seen here girls more sexually attractive, more lovely, more than almost anything. But one had possessed a quality that combined them all, and yet under the blend remained visible as a person, something more than just a body, or a face. “Of all we have seen here today, I think the one that enchanted me the most was the first one we looked at, the young female of the Zlats. The fourth class.”

  “Indeed? A Zlat? A fourth? You disappoint me in some ways; but in others you exhibit a refinement in taste, in which I will admit to a certain deficiency. Now, then, so be it. We shall go and conclude the arrangements. But as we go, let me tell you what I know of the breed, which I suppose is little enough. They are generally intelligent and quick, and are still occasionally used practically, for performing fine-detail work, at which they excel. The only fault here is perhaps lack of persistence, which I suppose arises from lack of practice. Also, they are affectionate and dependent, becoming tense only in situations of sexual rivalry, at which the females are as belligerent and demonstrative as the males. They are known to require considerable care, grooming, and so forth. Fourth class! You must see something I miss. But well enough—Zlats are all supple and responsive. And a fourth will lower the cost as well, for which I, with limited resources, thank you. Your taste may very well carry a component of tact, eh? Also, you will not have to compete with other prospective breeders, as a fourth would not be in great demand for breeding stock, even as a speculation.”

  “Does she know the nature of her award?”

  “No. She does not read or write. But that will be no problem; she will be very adaptable, if what I have heard about Zlats is true. By the way, do you plan to keep her as a brood female—for breeding? Do you intend to become a Zlat fancier? If so, I would advise a better specimen, even though such advice will cost me dearly. Thus I demonstrate my altruism and camaraderie.”

  “Well, no . . . I was thinking of perhaps a more selfish approach . . .”

  “Never mind, never mind, my young buck! No confidences! I understand perfectly. Ah, were I a youth again! How the juices flow! Well, then: matters shall proceed as you have chosen. Come along, now.”

  They went back to the area where the Zlats were displayed. Han looked for the girl again, but most of the specimens had retired for the night, apparently, to the closed-off portion in the rear of the stalls. It seemed that a very long time had passed—Han became conscious of the passage of time again; he realized that he had completely lost track of time while they had been in the exhibition. After a lengthy search, Hatha was able to locate the manager-keeper, who was well into his years. He wrote out a note with a great flourish, and in return, the manager-keeper gave Han a folder, inside which were printed lengthy instructions regarding the care of Zlats, all written in an elaborate script and arcane breeder terminology which was far beyond Han’s current level of comprehension. Then there was another form, in several copies, which the keeper-manager filled out, retaining one copy for himself; it was apparently a kind of registration. Still other paperwork appeared, which listed in considerable detail the girl’s ancestry backwards for twenty or more generations, with amplified and expanded sections dealing with champions in her line of particularly high honors, and fortuitous crosses between specific lines. No doubt about it—the girl might very well have only earned a fourth place herself, but she was certainly a Zlat beyond any shadow of doubt. Han looked through the wild squiggles of the letters, and finally pointed to one.

  “Is this her name?” Transliterated, it probably would have taken forty characters to spell out.

  “Only in a sense,” answered Hatha. “That is a registration name. We would not use that in speaking with the girl herself; she wouldn’t recognize it as having any connection with her. She wouldn’t respond. Now, what do they call her, colloquially? Let me see . . . Ah! Here it is. Usteyin. That’s her name.”

  “Does she talk?” Han felt completely insane as he asked the question.

  “Oh, yes, indeed. Speak slowly, clearly, as with a child.”

  The party returned to the area where the Zlats were on exhibition, finding the girl’s cubicle without difficulty. The keeper-manager, Han could see, was concerned for, and even fond of, his charges, and would brook no mistreatment. As they went, the ancient ler admonished Han vigorously and definitely as to care, exercise, diet and kindness.

  “These Zlats are a sensitive lot! But treat them right, and they are wonders, absolute paragons. They can do almost anything, except, of course, feats involving gross strength. I myself prefer the Haydars. Noble beasts, indeed!” Han remembered the Haydars well. They had been striking people. They were a lean, tall, attenuated people with olive skins, long, powerful limbs and great, bladelike noses. Their hair was oily black, dense and curly. Deeply set under heavy foreheads were sad, sad eyes whose pupils were almost completely black. Hatha had told him that they were hunters and trackers. It was only later that Han began to wonder what it was the Haydars had tracked and hunted, on this planet with no native animal more highly evolved than oversized toads. Of course . . .

  The girl Usteyin was indeed asleep. Han watched her for a moment, repressing an urge to gather her up, embrace her on the spot. But she was a stranger, completely, more of a stranger than Liszendir. Her form was girly, attractive, familiar. But she was a highly cultured product of a society more alien than anything of either Han’s or Liszendir’s societies. She lay in a small bed in the back of the enclosure, wrapped up in a soft, light blanket. It looked hand-woven. Her mouth was slightly open; she was breathing deeply, slowly, and apparently was dreaming of some pleasant circumstance, for a soft smile was drifting across the oval, exquisite face, the rosy, pursed mouth. Something tugged at his mind, something about the face. He couldn’t place it. Han signaled the keeper to wait to awaken her until the dream was over. Presently she shifted position. An idle thought flashed through his mind, a remark of the classical writer, Durrell—“unfair to watch a sleeping woman.”

  The keeper woke her up, gently. At first, she seemed frightened, as Han expected she would, by the numbers of people in her cubicle, but the keeper patiently explained what had transpired, and as he did, she relaxed, brightened up, and even became excited and animated. Han resisted an impulse to go completely mad; this lovely creature was actually happy to be sold. She asked, timidly, of him, if she could take her few little things with her. He agreed, heart pounding.

  While she gathered her few belongings up, the complicated gadget or thingamabob, a small pillow, the blanket, a small bag, presumably of toilet articles, the keeper divulged some more information about the breed.

  “Now, these Zlats: records only go so far back, but with these we have accurate records farther back than most. They are one of the oldest types, and their roots go back almost to the beginning, the first humans on Dawn. They, like us all, have had their ups and downs. But for the most part, they are rather docile—she will not try to escape. You must treat her with care: her bones are fragile and will break, if she is handled too roughly. She will also need some protection from the worst airs, and considerable grooming. There is a good description in the papers I gave you, but they do not ever capture the dimension of one’s responsibilities.”

  Han thought about the remark about not trying to escape. No, he could see that easily enough. Escapees would have been hunted, and he did not care to speculate upon their fate. So they would learn, over the years and generations, that escape was not an option for them. No out. They would develop a peculiar outlook, a psychology, which no other creature would have: they could not escape—but would have to face things as they came. He looked back to the girl, who was happy, excited. She had rolled her possessions into a neat ball, and stood quietly, waiting. Han reached to her, took her hand, the first female human hand he had touched, it seemed, in years, centuries. It was soft, delicate, warm; the nails were exquisitely manicured. She followed them quietly back to the shuttle.

  Outside, it was completely dark, for night had fallen. Han a
gain thought of the passage of time: they had been in the exhibition a long time—it must be very late. A snowstorm was trying to start up, blowing gusts of fitful, dry, gritty snow. As they walked to the shuttlecraft, he noticed that her teeth were chattering. He took her blanket, a soft, delicate thing much larger than it seemed, unrolled it, and wrapped her in it, while she looked at him with wide-eyed wonderment. He looked down at her bare feet, as finely formed as the rest of her, leaving footprints in the new snow. Her toes were red with the raw cold. She did not complain.

  In the shuttle, Han suddenly felt the weight of fatigue begin to fall on him, a heavy curtain, a fog. Through this fog, he heard Hatha, vaguely. Hatha was telling him that he should busy himself with his new pet and get to work on the procedures to be followed by the watch aboard the Hammerhand. At the hetman’s headquarters, Hatha conducted them to a set of rooms, comfortably furnished, and departed.

  10

  “Civilization is a thing which man does not really want; it is also a thing for which he can demonstrate no clear-cut requirement. Therefore, by the most simple and innocent probings, we are brought to those disturbing and terrible questions which always seem to begin with ‘why . . .’ ”

  —Roderigo’s Apocrypha

  “You may expect everything or nothing, as it suits you, but both are equally false. Only one thing true—something will happen to you; events are imperishable.

  —’l Knun i Slam (The Doctrine of Submission)